


I’m so sick of being so serious

by thesaddestboner



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Community: bats_and_balls, Detroit Tigers, Dogs, Gen, M/M, One Night Stands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-15
Updated: 2011-03-15
Packaged: 2017-10-27 15:53:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Rick wakes up and rolls over, right into a sleeping body next to him.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	I’m so sick of being so serious

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the second round of [](http://bats_and_balls.livejournal.com/profile)[**bats_and_balls**](http://bats_and_balls.livejournal.com/) and [this prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/bats_and_balls/20819.html). If you couldn’t tell, I’ve been mired in a writer’s block. 
> 
> Title from “We R Who We R,” by Ke$ha.
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

Rick wakes up and rolls over, right into a sleeping body next to him. His head is throbbing and his mouth is dry, which is awesome. Just what he needs. Rick sits up too quickly and a wave of nausea rises.

The bedroom is unfamiliar, and when Rick glances down at the person sleeping next to him, he’s unfamiliar too.

 _He_.

Rick groans and presses his hands to his face. He only hooks up with guys when he gets totally bombed. So, apparently he had a pretty good - or bad, depending on how you looked at it - night.

Rick carefully kicks the covers aside, praying silently that he won’t disturb whoever’s bed this is, and slips out. When his feet hit the cool wooden floorboards, of course they creak because his life sucks. God must hate him or something.

The guy stirs a bit and mumbles something Rick doesn’t catch.

“Uh, I’m leaving,” Rick whispers, creeping over to the dresser. His Springsteen t-shirt is hanging over a paper lantern lamp, and he carefully plucks it free.

His pants are a different story, as in he doesn’t see them anywhere. Then again, he’s not really sure what he’d been wearing the previous night, besides the Springsteen t-shirt. And, obviously, pants. He hopes.

Rick pulls the t-shirt on and gives a silent thanks to the man upstairs that he at least had the presence of mind - albeit drunkenly - to keep his boxers on. There’s nothing more embarrassing than not knowing where your underwear are. Not that he knows this from personal experience or anything.

He hears what sounds like nails clicking on floorboards and looks down; a little ball of fluff pushes the bedroom door open with its nose and traipses in, tail wagging. It looks at Rick expectantly.

“What do you want?” he asks, dropping to his knees to look under the bed for his missing pants.

The dog’s wagging tail is a white blur and its tongue lolls out of its mouth. It practically starts hopping in excitement, nails clicking on the floorboards, and Rick surmises it must be hungry.

“Go away -” he reaches out and finds the dog’s nametag “- Barkley. Who on earth would name their dog Barkley, anyway?” He drops the nametag and shoos Barkley off so he can continue looking for his pants.

No pants. Maybe Barkley ate them.

“This is why I never hook up if I can help it,” Rick tells the sleeping dude, pushing himself to his feet. The guy snuffs into his pillow an Rick swallows back an uncharitable snort as he creeps around the perimeter of the room, keeping an eye out for his missing blue jeans.

Rick steps on a creaky floorboard and Barkley starts yipping. Unfortunately, shooting the dog daggers with his eyes does nothing to stop the barking, so Rick goes over and scoops the dog up in his arms.

“Shush. Be quiet. I’m trying to sneak out of here with my dignity intact,” he tells the dog, successfully dodging its attempts to bathe his face with its tongue. “Dude. Come on. Be cool.”

“Are you talking to me or my dog,” the bed’s - and dog’s, and house’s - owner grumbles.

Rick glances over at the bed. Mr. One Night Stand is eyeing Rick like he thinks he’s trying to kidnap his white yippy ball of fluff. “Oh, hey. Uh.” Rick gives a stupid pageant wave. Barkley’s tongue flares out and Rick successfully ducks it, relenting and setting the dog back on the floor.

“My name’s Andy, by the way. And your pants are in the bathroom,” Andy says, pushing back the covers and climbing out of his bed. Barkley runs over and Andy steps over him, toward Rick.

He’s good looking, tall and solid like a ballplayer, even though Rick is fairly certain he isn’t since he’s not dumb enough to go after other ballplayers.

Rick throws out a hand, deeply aware of how awkward he must seem. “Um, I’m -” Rick blanks for a moment - he can’t possibly give Andy his real name - but recovers quickly. “Jake.”

“Jake.” Andy nods slowly and accepts Rick’s hand, snorting in quiet amusement. “I’ll grab your pants.”

“Thanks. Uh, why are they in the bathroom? I really don’t remember any of last night,” Rick says, laughing sheepishly.

“You wanted to take a shower,” Andy says, scratching a hand through his unkempt blond hair.

“Oh. Okay.”

Andy goes to get Rick’s pants and Rick locates his cell phone on the nightstand. When he flips it open, he’s got, like, twenty voicemails and fifteen of them are from Verlander. Rick hazards listening to the first one; Verlander’s wasted and yelling over the background noise that sounds a lot like that annoying new Ke$ha song.

“ _Ricky, I dunno where the fuck you are, but you’re seriously missing out! Where’d you run off to? Call me when you get this, man._ ”

Rick deletes it and calls for a taxi while Barkley weaves between his ankles, begging for attention.

Andy returns with Rick’s pants and tosses them to him. “So, I figure you got somewhere to be, but do you wanna get together later?”

Rick steps into his jeans and pulls them up, fastening them. “Uh, I’m kind of busy. I’m from out of town,” he says, feeling lame, slipping his phone in his pocket. “I’m only in Texas once a year.”

“Oh,” Andy says, looking let down. “Well, I guess I’ll see you around some other time, then.”

“Yeah, uh, put your number in my phone. I’ll call you,” Rick says. He pulls his phone out, thrusting it into Andy’s hands, feeling bad.

Andy plugs in his number and hands the phone over. “You got a ride?”

“Called for a taxi,” he says, offering Andy a slight smile. “It’ll be here in a few. Thanks for letting me crash.”

“No problem.”

Andy sees Rick out of his place and Rick waits until he hears the door shut softly behind him before he lets out a relieved breath. It’s usually not that easy. He feels lucky Andy didn’t recognize him or press him some more to stay.

Rick parks himself on the top step and waits for the taxi that’ll take him back to the team’s hotel.

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


End file.
